What’s up mingemongers and moneyhoneys, my name’s Seven and this is my blog.
The whole ‘not having a day job’ situation is new to me, and I’m still adjusting. For example, I didn’t realize that when you’re not a slave to the grind, every day is the weekend. It used to be that during the week I’d need to get to bed early for a 6 am alarm, so Mon to Fri my “Cinderella-to-pumpkin” time was 22.30 at the absolute latest. Now, I can stay out as long as I want any night I want. Except that I’m now an old man, so try as I might, I can’t keep from running out of gas by midnightish. Still, it’s been interesting to see what the redlight looks like late-night during the week.
At 17.00 on Sunday I did the dumbest thing ever. I went to a German restaurant famous for their beer menu and ordered a white ruskie. And I’d bet a thousand baht I was the first one to ever order it there. What came out was a glass of milk in a tumbler with a t-spoon of Kahlua and half a shot of vodka. I’d made the blunder in an effort to pair a cocktail with the Drew Estate M81 Blackened Maduro I recently purchased from Session. What I should’ve done was order a Nitro Merlin Milk Stout, which I quickly did and then mixed it with the ruskie. It wasn’t a perfect save, but it came close.
At 18.00 an American clam walked the gay soi, clearly lost. Then she came in and bought a beer from G’s, poured it into a soda cup, paid and left. I guess dhe didn’t know it’s not illegal to walk the streets of Bangkok with an open beer.
Monday is the day for my late-arriving conc so I nipped out for a quick kow pad and a cigar in the Pong, and ran into another regular pongmonger who said he enjoyed my previous day’s post. And crazily, so did a lot of other people. At the time of posting this diatribe, it’s reached 29k looks on X. Which goes to show, I’m a shitty judge of my own writing. The blogs I’m particularly proud of—the ones I really enjoyed writing and think are especially clever—get crickets from readers and barely any looks. But when I just shit out something convoluted and stream-of-conscious, the people go wild. The lesson there is, don’t try. People will like an accidental fart more than your hardest effort. Also, I learned I don’t have a clue about what’s good and what isn’t.
The highlight of my short sojourn t’Pong was all the injured tourists. Every 10th douchebag that passed by was bandaged-up in some way. Most were clearly motorbike rental-related. Some were on crutches while others had arm splints and black eyes. Goddam, I love it. Seeing white gauze anywhere on a foreigner is like Christmas morning for this jaded jagoff. It makes me want to invest in the gauze cartel. You know they’re the ones behind the lax safety standards here.
Tuesday was afternoon delight time with my longest-suffering conc. She’s been with me since 2013. I picked her up from Electric Blue. She was one of a crew of four bffs who all eventually joined Seven’s harem. Today, she’s the last hanger on. I’ve tried to break free so many times, but somehow she always worms her way back in. After she finished up, I flitted out to Shenanigan’s for a cheese steak sandwich and a Black-n-Smooth, paired with my 2nd Drew Estate M81 Blackened Maduro in as many days. Call me crazy but the first third of that stick has a hint of bacon, along with nuts, spice, leather, coffee, and a bit of bitter chocolate. And somehow, every sip of the BnS tasted exactly like the cigar, and vice versa. I guess that’s what they calla perfect pairing. Like me and a Pong dancer on her first night of work.
After what has become my customary 15.00 to 18.00 nap, I decided to hit NanaP, partially because I haven’t been there midweek in many months and partially because of the crazy dream I had during my nap.
I dreamed I was in Phuket, on a tiny stretch of beach with a string of beer bars and outdoor gogos. I stopped in to one and discovered half a dozen exXXXers working there. We all went outside and sat round a large wooden table. Beer—a former concubine—came and sat on my lap. She was decked-out in skimpy black lingerie. At a nearby table, a young farang eyed us with rage. ‘Twas clear he wanted to barfine Beer, and I was cockblocking him. This was something I used to do a lot in the real world. From Ao Nang to Patpong, I’ve blocked nearly a hundred cocks from taking a girl home. Not by scooping her up for myself, but by buying her drinks till the dude got tired of waiting and bailed. I used to take great pleasure in fucking with cunts in that way. These days I can’t be bothered but the dream was a nice slice of nostalgia. Beer and I even kissed in the dream, which violates a strict rule I have in the waking world. I never put my mouth on a mouth that services my wang.
At any rate, the dream had me crushing on Beer a little bit so I rocked up to Essence, only to find her M.I.A. Earn was there, though, in all her chubby glory. I went to the loo to wash my hands, and she snuck up behind me for a reacharound. Soon after returning to my seat, Beer appeared from the locker room with a wide grin. She pointed at me like Babe Ruth calling a homerun and bounded onstage. Ten seconds later she was on my lap, and after 20 minutes of kanoodling I paid my bill and then Beer actually kissed me goodbye—a thing she’s never done before. It was then that I realized, my dreams can tell the future.
On my way out, I passed the same late-arriving exXXXer whose ass I smacked the previous Friday, so I smacked it again. She whirled around with a look of incredulity until she saw it was me. Then she laughed in a way that said, “Oh shit, this happened last week!” I then tried to check out Spanky’s but there was nowhere to sit. At a glance, though, the stage looked fantastic. Then it was on to Angelwitch where Joey D seemed surprised to see me. The joint was ¾ full at 21.00. The DJ cranked AC/DC followed by The Romantics, The Fixx, Loverboy, The Pretenders, and the Ramones. I mean fuck, where else are you gonna hear tunes like that in the RLD?
Based on a recommendation from a longtime BKK monger, I hit Bunny2 to rate the talent. They had three lookers in the first rotation and three in the next. Maybe Tuesday is an off-day for that bar. The foot traffic was visibly down on Tuesday, though whether it was due to it being midweek or the annual slide into low season, I couldn’t say.
As I exited Nana, I ran smack into an ex-harem girl. She works at Rainbow, and tried to coax me up there with her. I said I’d be back at the weekend, which was a lie. She’s a sweetheart, but for me she’s a been-there-done-that. From there, I did a quick Pong. There were no seats in K1 so I popped next door. Mena and a couple hotskinnies whipped the crowd into a frenzy. I had one cocktail and retreated to the terrace to watch the foreigners make idiots of themselves. A Bangladeshi in board shorts kept trying to sneak a photo of the K1 door but the staff expertly blocked every attempt. A family of slavs passed by with their 10-year old-daughter. They weren’t monitoring her, and she gobbled up the sight of the gogo stage like an attention-starved would-be whore. She will definitely grace a pole one day. A skinny white dude in a pink polo and powder blue bermuda shorts rocked up like the hero of his own fairytale. I can’t believe the world still makes dudes like that. A stupid old white dude tried to snap a doorway photo. The staff yelled, and he ran off in shame.
The tourist traffic in Patpong seemed to be unaffected by the weeknight and time of year. There was a visible uptick in nipons. Stupid, loud, arrogant, dorky nipons. When I worked in Seoul, the racist Koreans viewed Thailand as their slumming playground. I can only assume the Japanese feel the same. It’s where they can cut loose and act the fool. And to be fair, a significant number of dumbass Americans do the exact same thing.
On Thursday I went to the bank at 9.30 to try to activate the Western Union app for mobile banking. I was number 22 and the LCD screen read 17. OK, this won’t take long, I thought. After 30 minutes, the screen still read 17, so I bailed. There were like 20 employees sitting at desks. But if course, TIT which means 19 of them were playing Candy Crush instead of doing any actual work.
Per usual, my feet took me t’Pong, where the morning market on Soi 1 was just wrapping up. I had breakkie at Shagz followed by a Drew Estate Tabak Dulce paired with a Shanky’s Whip-and-coffee. ‘Twas the earliest I’d ever lit up a stogie (10.30) and I have to say, it felt good. I’m a man on indefinite holiday now, and it’s sweet. Mornings in BKK are delightful. The green/white/blue of the trees/buildings/sky are reminiscent of old Los Angeles, sans the cultural animosity and cunting police.
Later that afternoon, my 19-year-old conc came by to service my junk. I followed it up with a well-deserved nap. Later than night, I hoofed it over to Soi Cowboy for Dollhouse boss Dennis’ birthday. First, I had a couple slices at Capone’s, which was dumb, because as soon as I rolled into DH, Dennis was there handing out free pizza. A bunch of regulars were already there, and they were all talking about one thing: the spectacular ass on the new girl. I scanned the stage and spotted her in a halter top and black bikini bottoms. Sure enough, her backside was pretty great. I’d score it an 8.5 or 9. It was robust, firm, shapely, and the smooth color of cocoa butter. Additionally, she had a lovely face, long silky black hair, fit shapely legs—no tits, but that’s OK in my book. Even still, she was a no-go for Seven, because her waist was nearly the same width as her hips, and that’s a dealbreaker for yours truly. I know it’s nitpicking, but I’m a picky nitter. In fact, I’d rather she was ugly with a narrower waist. But it was fun to watch her dance. And really, that’s my only gogo goal these days. I wrote a song about it. You can listen here: https://youtu.be/wkmADEySdio
Also—and this is something a seasoned monger can detect at a glance—she’s at her peak now. In the next few months, barring a drug habit or drastic carb reduction, that near-perfect ass will expand like a hot-air balloon, and with that wide waist, her midsection will take on the look of a Campbell’s soup can. By Loy Krathong she’ll have scaled past the tipping point of hotness and be just another cute chunker on the pole. Between rotations, a dourist (douche tourist) had her over for a ladydrink and chatted her up in the way that somebody would in a West LA bar. He was an Ameritwat sporting a white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, sunglasses hanging from his crewneck collar, and one arm sleeve-tatted. He seemed very pleased with himself at how well things were going with her, until she finished her drink and scampered off. For a moment, he was dumbfounded. His wingman was chagrined to be saddled with a less-attractive lass who stuck round for many more drinks. Eventually, t-shirt sleeves sprang for more drinks so the booty cutie would stick around. I wished I could’ve been there when it came time to invite her back to his room, and she quoted the barfine and shorttime prices. Because dudes like this douche are always shocked that they have to pay. They actually think that being handsome or having game somehow negates the girl’s need to cover the rent. The look of surprise on the guy’s face when he realizes that no amount of effort or copying Robin Thicke’s look changes the fact that redlight sex is never free would’ve been priceless.
After an uncustomary three beers in a single gogo, I bade farewell and happy birthday to Dennis and hoofed it straight to the K1 terrace, where a bunch of KII dancers asked why I didn’t visit their bar before sparking up a cigar. I didn’t know how to answer that. What makes an old man choose tobacco over tail? I’m bored with both. ‘Twas fascinating to watch the passersby gawk shamelessly at my smoking companion—a dancer in a bra and g-string just hanging out on the Soi, puffing away on a fag, oblivious to the crowd of starers. Moments later, the rotation happened and she was replaced by two girls in white lingerie, though they had the forethought to cover up with a pair of sarongs. Still, the hiso Singaporean girlfriends cast condescending looks. A few years back, a movie came out called “Crazy Rich Asians.” Apparently it was a phenomenon. I didn’t bother to see it, because even though I’m attracted exclusively to Asian chicks, I barf in my mouth at the thought of rich Asian chicks. Because isn’t that just another prattling entitled twat, like every white clam in North America? Fuck that noise. Ali Wong had a bit about it in her standup act. She said there were two types of Asian—“fancy Asian” and “jungle Asian”—implying the fancies were prettier and classier. I got a news flash for you, sugartits: you’re wrong. Because no matter how fancy you are on the outside, an ugly heart is impossible to hide. Conceit is a turn-off. So is a spendthrift. Give me a tiny, dark brown, unassuming jungle Asian with a heart of gold that radiates kindness and screams bloody murder in the bedroom every time. The fancies can go fancy themselves. I like my Asians young, hot, and penniless. Because then they can’t afford to have an attitude.
Speaking of, I had to retire my number two conc last week.
When it comes to relationships, I’m about as committed as Robert DeNiro in the movie “Heat.” There’s no vagine I wouldn’t walk away from in five seconds flat—not for police-related reasons. I’ll bail for a lot less than that. Last week, I walked away from a girl who’d been with me for 11 years, for the crime of sending a rude text. I suppose the reason none of my concs have ever had a cross word for me is, I have a one-cross-word maximum and then I’m out. She was like, “Seven you yap-yap-yap!” I replied, “OK, we’re done. Goodbye.” and then blocked her. It doesn’t matter if she’s in the harem for a day or a decade. Sass me just once, and yer out
If you’re a foreign dude and you were dumb enough to bring foreign clam with you to TLOS, then taking her to the Patpong Night Market might be a tiny bit ingenious. Because it’s 80% kitch with a smattering of redlight, and the dude can pretend to be shocked at the sight of the gogos. On Thursday I saw two separate mixed-gender groups where the girl was the one to suggest checking out a gogo on a lark. That said, when the inevitable fight happens later on, no amount of “But it was your idea!” will save the dudes.
A young Nipon sat at the table next to mine with a KII girl who he’d clearly barfined the night before and followed back to the bar to cockblock any other would-be shorttimers. Lord have mercy, I remember those days. ‘Twas my M.O. back in Krabi in 2010. To be fair, pickings are slimmer down there, so when you find a piece of tail who’s simpatico with your bedroom demeanor, it behooves one to sink the claws in and not let go. It’s how I got trucked into monogamy for my first two years in country. Then one night, she did me dirt, and I deleted her from my phone and took the first bus to Phuket the following morning, never to return.
I got the last seat in KII and stayed for the length of one drink. For some reason, the girls were making eyes from the stage. One accused me of being drunk by miming drinking with a closed fist. I responded by miming a blowjob and insisted she pay me 100 baht for the privilege—a move that always gets a laugh.
On Friday I’d planned to stay in, what with the midweek already mongered and my Thursday conc postponed to Friday, and her tendency to show up after 22.00. I thought a Ponging would be impossible. Not so. After she left at 23.30 I got a wild butt hair and just skidded out to K1 where I got a front row seat to a stage packed with every shape and size of Thai girl. Lots of new and familiar faces met my blasé gaze. Most importantly, the aircon was uber chilly on another steamy Bangkok night. Plus, I knew if I’d just gone to bed, I’dve stared at the ceiling, thinking about how badly I don’t want to go to America next weekend. If I went to bed sober, I’d actually lay there and whine aloud “I don’t wanna goooooo!” like a goddam child.
Several girls gave me the side eye on Friday. I’m not sure whether it was barfine hunger or if I just looked familiar from some other past gogo locale. A bunch of Nipons came in with girls they’d barfined from a different gogo. Because nothing says “Let’s paint the town” like barfining a gogo dancer and taking her to…another gogo. Then again who knows, maybe they were looking to upgrade.
Nobody took my drink order for a good five minutes so the boss came and took it, and then told the barmaid to put it on his tab. Goddam, the King’s Group are a class act.
A mid-60s American dude next to me tried to buy the boss a shot of tequila. He declined. Then he told his waitress, “This is a great party!” She didn’t comprehend. I took my free black ruskie out to the terrace and sparked up an Acid Blondie. A KII familiar stepped out with her Chinese barfine, cast me a side glance with a smirk, and walked on. I smirked as well, because I happen to know (not first-hand) that she has the clap. I hope the shorttimer wore a condom. If not, it’s a lesson he will have to learn sometime. Might as well be this week.
KII was mostly full with lots of lusty girls. It’s a maxim that in the last few hours before closing, the girls take on an alcohol-fueled fever that is nothing short of pornographic. The same was true in Virgin. Their stage more closely resembled an LSD orgy than a gogo bar. I counted a dozen new faces plus some Patpong veterans—namely Ning, formerly of Bada Bing, then later Glamour, Pink Panther, and now Virgin, looking like a stick of fuck dynamite. Ning was joined by Catgirl, Miguel, my exgf lookalike, Jun, and six or seven girls who all knew my name but I struggled to place them. A few were Strip and XXX veterans. The tourists were all out of control. If the ghost of John Belushi appeared sporting a toga and smashing an acoustic guitar, he would not’ve been out of place. The girls onstage danced with furious abandon. I haven’t seen a frenzy like that since Electric Blue in its heyday.
On Saturday I burned another 4k on cigars at Session and then hopped across the street to Top House. The joint caters mainly to Thais but it’s many things to different people. It’s a nightclub first and foremost, but there’s also a restaurant and beer garden on site. The entrance is a large outdoor seating area shaped like a giant staircase, with tables and high-tops on each ascending level, rising above the street like an Aztec temple. If you can stand the heat, it’s the hippest place to sit. But there’s also an indoor seating area pumping aircon along with the latest pop tunes. I ordered a burger and beer for 239b. The menu offered no info on the burger’s complemondiments (complementing condiments). It just said ‘burger and beer.’ So I was curious to see what would come on it. It arrived with gobs of melted white cheddar, two slabs of thick, crispy bacon, and lettuce and tomato on the side. There was also a sauce, but I couldn’t place it. The brewskie was a Singha draft (they also had Chang) but their bottles menu was more extensive and eclectic (extectlic for short, copyright BKK7). They had a wide array of flavored ciders, some Belgian and German beers, Thai crafties, plus Corona and Hoegaarden, soju, and a set of Smirnoff Ices.
Here’s a summary of the food menu: pizza by the slice or whole pies, Thai classics like somtam, moo det diow, tom yum, krapow and kow pad, sweet and sour spareribs, chicken wings, french fries, multiple salads, sea bass, prawns, spring rolls, minced pork omelet. I could see making this a weekly stop, if only to break up the monotony and chow down on food that should be but isn’t in my regimen.
After Top House, I lumbered half a block to Patpong, sliding into the same K1 front seat as the day before. This was at 19.50 and so the joint was only half full. There’s a certain freedom when, as a monger, you frequent a gogo with zero interest in any of the girls. It’s liberating, and a little boring. That’s the tradeoff. The drama for the thrill. Not that the girls in K1 aren’t thrilling. They are. But my lusty eye is lazy in there, and I like that just fine. It’s more complicated in KII where I feel the pull towards a girl who II know, were I to get with, would turn my leisurely stogie smoking ritual into a kind of hellscape.
The Night Market was chock full of young foreign couples on holiday. I can’t imagine loving someone enough to buy her a plane ticket to Thailand. I draw the line at knock-off handbags for harem girls’ birthdays—and rent. And diaper money. But that’s not so much from a place of love as reciprocation. That’s my speed. Love is unattainable, unsustainable, and fictional.
Three fat old farang women came back and handed out Bible verses to the off-duty dancers sharing my table. As someone who was raised in the church, this really chaps my hide. I’ve seen it dozens of times from Phuket to Patpong, and the story is always the same. The femangelists (female evangelists) are not remotely interested in saving any of the men in the redlight. In fact, I get the distinct impression they’d be thrilled if we all burned in eternal hellfire. And, they hand out scripture in English. A Bangkok gogo dancer has no chance whatsoever of understanding a Bible verse in English, or the concept of the Bible, or the notion of a Judeo-Christian God. So in a nutshell, all these fat old twats are doing is patting themselves on the back whilst sending the message that they hate all men. End of mission. Not very “Christian,” if you ask me.
K Corner had a metric tonne of new pussy, and more customers than seats. One sad farang walked around the stage in a daze. He clearly wanted to barfine someone but didn’t know how, plus he was stuck on sensory overload. He was gash-struck. He kept looking from one girl to the next to the next, and back to the first with a pained expression. Eventually, he gave up and left. Nine young Americans in military haircuts entered and took up stools stageside. They were unsure of where to cast their gaze. A decade of woke Millennial feminist rhetoric told them not to ogle the girls onstage. Instead, they watched the other customers and congratulated each other on being there.
In KII, Mena was just sitting down with a quartet of fat, giggling nipons as I entered. The girls who sit with me while I smoke all nodded in approval as if to say, it’s about time you actually came into the bar. The girl I feel awkward around wasn’t there, thank Buddha. I nursed a vodka and perused the stage, debating whether or not to hit Virgin. The previous night was almost too much for this old man’s delicate constitution.
Watching the crew of idiot Japanese in King’s, I was struck by the stark difference between the depiction of these fellows in film vs the reality. I’m currently watching the series “Shogun,” which portrays white people as uncouth barbarians and Japanese as profoundly dignified, stoic, well-mannered, reserved demi-gods. Which is a farce, judging by the riffraff coming here for a sex vacation. These twats are a tragicomedy. But maybe it’s just that they’re not sending their best. I can accept that. It’s certainly the case with every other cunting country on the planet.
I skipped Virgin and instead had another lowkey Leo draft outside K1. Four blafrican Americans were at the next table, smoking ganja. The cloud of reefer was so thick, I was stoned 10 seconds after sitting down. A new girl took a dude’s order, and when he handed her the cash, she walked to the till but left his bin. I knew he’d be charged twice, so I grabbed it and brought it to her. Don’t ask me why I went out of my way to help a tourist. When I sat back down, he said, “I guess that happens a lot?” implying it’s a common scam. I said, “No, she’s just new and doesn’t know what she’s doing.” The King’s Group doesn’t rip off tourists. Actually, neither does Virgin. And I can say Pink Panther and Bada Bing also don’t scam customers.
Some Asian dudes—and I don’t know if they’re Chinese or Korean or what—barfine a girl and then walk around the Night Market like they didn’t just barfine a girl. She’s forced to follow him around like a puppy dog. It must be some kind of superiority flex. Whatever the reasoning, it’s cuntlike.
No photo slideshow this week. I couldn’t be fucked to take enough photos to warrant one.
And that’s all the monger that’s fit to ponder for now, friends. Sorry for all the typos. I didn’t proofread. Check back next Sunday for another summary of this redlight life. In the meantime, you can read more Bangkok-related stuff on my Substack: https://bangkokseven.substack.com/
Artwork and photo albums from inside the gogos are available for digital download at https://bentbox.co/bangkoksevenart at super-low prices.
Slideshows from previous blogs going back several years can be found at https://www.youtube.com/c/BangkokSeven
Follow me on Twitter/X @BangkokSeven for daily pics from the redlight, and until next time fellow BK Bukowskis and Bathshebas, keep your balls (or tits) warm, your beer cold, and cheers to another week above ground in the greatest country on Earth: Thailand.
Thai chick-related posters and prints on canvas can be found at
https://www.etsy.com/shop/ThailandNights
Pro Tip Post-Script: When in Thailand, never assume you’re being scammed when it could be chalked-up to air-headedness. Not that Thais are stupid. The fact of the matter is, they’re often just not thinking critically. In other words, a Thai barmaid does not think to herself, “Can what I’m about to do be misconstrued as scamming a customer?” If she forgets to bring your change, it’s not a scam. She just fucking forgot. Americans don’t understand such lapses in judgment, because if a server at an Atlanta TGI Friday’s did that, they’d probably be fired. Nobody in Thailand gets fired for lapses in mental acuity. So 9 out of 10 times no, you’re not being scammed. Your server just has her head in the clouds.
